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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260194">there goes the downpour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrobi/pseuds/astrobi'>astrobi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, a good amount of angst, because tea heals all wounds, gratuitous amounts of tea, someone give draco a hug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:35:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrobi/pseuds/astrobi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco goes on the run. If someone had told him he'd spend this much time being comforted by Harry Potter, he would have just gone somewhere else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>357</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there goes the downpour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've had this sitting around in my docs for a while, so i just finished it and decided to impulsively upload. in this sequence of events, events from the deathly hallows still occur, but maybe they're a bit jumbled up, with draco thrown in for good measure.<br/>title is from "vienna" by the fray</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malfoy Manor wasn’t warded against storms.</p><p> </p><p>His father used to insist on it, when Draco used to be afraid of the jolting cracks of thunder and the sharp, lively, flares of lightning. His mother would wave her wand and mutter some spell that sounded intricate and complex to him when he was younger, and suddenly, the dark and cold night wasn’t so frightening. Still, he’d find refuge inside his bedroom, tucked away beneath his sheets and a cup of cocoa that an equally frightened house elf would bring him, listening to the rain as though it was storming five miles away, and fall asleep to the low crackling of the logs in the fireplace.</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere along the line, though, storms didn’t seem so scary to him anymore. Draco got accepted to Hogwarts and suddenly, his world was filled with things that actually <em> were </em> scary. His father would bring home associates and acquaintances who wore strange masks and conjured strange spells in their living room, and his mother would tell him urgently to go to his bedroom, warding the door from the outside when she didn’t think he could hear her. But stormy nights were suddenly the safe nights, the nights when no one dared to Floo into their house in case the lightning struck down the chimney, and no one dared to Apparate in case they got blown off course. They all knew that Lucius could have put up a ward with no trouble, that it didn’t take a particularly skilled caster, not when the rest of the Manor was so heavily guarded against everything else. But they didn’t mention it, they quickly changed the subject when his aunt Bellatrix brought it up with a suspicious sneer, and moved on.</p><p> </p><p>Stormy nights were warm ones, ones where he could come downstairs for a cup of cocoa or tea, fall asleep by the fire without being chastised for it, and wake up the next morning feeling the kind of well-rested he hadn't felt in a while, the kind of deep sleep that lingered on the inside of his eyelids and the joints of his limbs all day.</p><p> </p><p>He felt the kind of safe he hadn’t felt in a while, too, even though the water would wash away the soil in the gardens and flood through the front gates, to the point where he’d have to charm his galoshes in order to really keep from getting muddy, sweeping through the grounds of the Manor like it was trying to wash away everything that kept him awake at night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Storms in a tent, however, don’t have the same soothing atmosphere. At the first crack of thunder, Granger had sworn something foul, rushing outside to <em> Impervius </em> the hell out of their tent, and Weasley had gone to help her. The protective wards didn’t do much for weather, unless the rain was being conjured by someone else. Still, when they come back in, their hair is dripping wet splotches onto their shirts and their shoes leaving muddy prints all over the floor of the tent. Potter has conveniently vanished off somewhere, like he always does when there’s spell-casting to be split up amongst them, chores to be done, lunch to be made. Even Draco is being helpful by making everyone tea, though he’s seriously contemplating putting an extra-strength dose of Sleeping Draught in Weasley’s after hearing him snore for all of last night.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus,” Weasley gripes as he tries to wring out the hem of his jumper. “It’s awful out there.” He grabs the first mug, immediately burning his tongue on the hot liquid. Draco bites back a laugh and goes for a sympathetic smile instead, but Granger glares at him over Weasley’s shoulder and he figures that it wasn’t very successful.</p><p> </p><p>“Yikes,” he says instead, sipping his own tea carefully. There’s not enough sugar in here, but Potter moans something awful when he makes his tea too sweet, like Draco’s forcing his cup down Potter’s throat. He drops in another sugar cube for good measure, ignoring the fact that they don’t have enough money to be throwing sugar cubes around like this. Hot, sickeningly sweet tea during a raging storm is one of the few comforts Draco has left to enjoy.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Malfoy,” Granger says gratefully, taking a hasty gulp of tea before trying desperately to dry off her own clothes. She manages to siphon off most of the water before giving up with a groan and casting a warming charm on the pair of them. “Where’s Harry?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco goes still over his cup. “I thought he told you two where he was running off.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Granger says slowly, putting her own cup down. “I haven’t seen him since he went to his room after lunch. He wasn’t in here with you?”</p><p> </p><p>Potter’s room was empty when Draco went looking for him earlier, trying to trick him into doing laundry. “No,” Draco says, stomach dropping, though he’s hardly going to admit it. “He wasn’t there when I checked earlier.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no,” she says, already sprinting outside. “Harry! Harry are you there?”</p><p> </p><p>Weasley grunts, tugging off his jumper as it sticks to his skin, left in an equally soaking wet t-shirt. “He’s a goner,” he says simply. “If he’s outside the wards of the tent then we’ll just have to hope he has a wand with him and that he remembers how to <em> Impervius </em> himself.”</p><p> </p><p>He does have a wand, Draco wants to point out, <em> his </em> wand, the traitorous piece of garbage that refuses to answer to him anymore. Potter had been apologetic about it, at least, and he’d tried to give it back to him but to no avail. The stupid thing felt as dead in his hand as a limp flobberworm. He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows they all feel badly enough about it as is. Draco’s using a wand Weasley had stolen from a Snatcher, and it feels about three inches too short and ten degrees too slimy in his hand, but a wand is a wand, and it’s better than nothing. “ <em> Evanesco, </em>” he says to the pile of tea leaves in the sink, and the wand twitches sharply in his hand and vanishes about half of it. He sighs and throws the rest away himself.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not there,” Granger says, poking her head back into the tent. Her voice has gone high with panic. “Should I take the wards down so we can go bring him back?”</p><p> </p><p>He looks at Weasley for a moment, and then shrugs. “If you want,” he says, “but honestly I think Potter can take care of himself long enough to find his way back. Plus he knows how to get through the wards.”</p><p> </p><p>Granger surveys him for a moment, probably wondering whether this is part of some plot to let Potter get devoured by wild beasts in the forest after all, as if there are tigers and bears in the woods on this side of England. “He’s right,” agrees Weasley, somewhat reluctantly, already settling into his pullout bed and pulling the blankets over him. “Harry’s a big boy, Hermione, and if he’s not back in two hours we’ll go looking for him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” says Granger at last, visibly relaxing. A little pang of hurt strikes him, that she doesn’t quite trust him even after the four of them have been on the run together for weeks and he’s not only refrained from so much as hexing them, but has also saved <em> each </em> of their arses multiple times. He can’t quite blame her though, seeing as they hated each other’s guts for six years. “You’re on first watch then, Draco.” She points at him before collapsing on the bed next to Weasley. She looks exhausted.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” he grumbles, “but I have a shitty wand so please forgive me if I can’t use it in time to save you two.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just leave,” Weasley grumbles, pulling Granger closer to him. Draco does, because he’s sure that they’re about to start snogging any moment and he has no desire to witness any of that. <em> “Muffliato,” </em> he murmurs once he’s outside, pointing the wand at the tent. He doesn’t want to hear any of it either, not after last time.</p><p> </p><p>Outside, the January sun is holding on to its last rays of light, even though it’s barely five in the evening. The protective bubble around the tent is holding soundly, for now, although it only seems to amplify the roar of the rain. The ground outside is cold, but blessedly dry, and Draco sighs and sinks into a seated position. He’ll be on watch for a few hours, and he’ll wake Weasley for his shift around ten, seeing as he wasn’t on watch yesterday. Until then, however, it’s just Draco, the rain, and his bust loaner wand to keep him company.</p><p> </p><p>He passes the first couple of hours trying to master basic spells with this wand. It’s temperamental, but he can see that it’s warming up to him. Dragon heartstring, he guesses, feeling the slow tug of energy at his muscles after the second hour, it feels like a compressed spring, aching to go off at any moment. It drains him a little, to use it, but not as much as it used to. He successfully makes it shoot a jet of water - <em> not </em> boiling hot, this time - Stupefies an unsuspecting squirrel, casts a halfway decent shield charm, summons a barrage of pebbles from the base of a large tree, until he’s surrounding by enough rocks to build a miniature fort. He levitates a good bit of them, and then puts his shield charm to test as the levitation fails and they fall around him. “Ow,” he says aloud, rubbing his shoulder where a bruise will definitely form tomorrow, but he can’t say that he didn’t have it coming.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard work, and he’s built up a little bit of sweat, so the evening air feels pleasantly cool on his skin, even after the warming charm Granger cast on him. The sun set almost right after he came outside, so the woods are shrouded in darkness, the occasional hooting of an owl the only thing that breaks the silence. Draco wonders if he could get away with taking a little nap, just for the last hour of his shift, and lies down on the ground anyway, stretches his legs, when he hears a branch snap in the distance.</p><p> </p><p>Instantly, he’s on his feet, wand out. He undoes the <em> Muffliato </em> on the tent in case Granger and Weasley need to hear his anguished screaming and come to his rescue, but he really hopes it doesn’t come to that or they’ll never let him hear the end of it. “Shut up,” he tells himself, “you’d be fine if you had your own wand, and the wand doesn’t make the wizard, Draco.” He goes through all the spells he can do with this wand - <em> Aguamenti, Stupefy, Protego, Wingardium Leviosa - </em>and decides that a Snatcher can’t be all that different from a squirrel and squares himself up.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe it’s just a bear,” he mutters, knowing full well that there are no bears in this area of the forest. “Or a large rabbit.”</p><p> </p><p>A shape emerges from the bushes, definitely human, walking straight towards where the tent is pitched. Draco’s heart hammers, and he clutches the wand tighter. The figure comes closer and closer, stands in front of the tent, right where the boundaries of the protective wards are, and raises a wand. Their face is hidden in shadow, and Draco can’t see it. “Just like a squirrel,” he reminds himself, and opens his mouth to hit them with the <em> Stupefy </em> of a lifetime, just before the wards shimmer and Potter walks through.</p><p> </p><p>Draco lets out a sigh of relief and lowers his wand. “Potter,” he says, trying, and judging by Potter’s expression, <em> failing, </em>to keep the relief out of his voice. “Where were you?”</p><p> </p><p>Potter ignores him, looking at Draco’s wand and rigid stance. “Were you going to curse me?”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t blame me,” Draco huffs, feeling rather put off by Potter’s smug tone. Really, it’s dark and there are untrustworthy people running about, and Granger and Weasley left him out here with the shittiest wand he’s ever used. “It’s dark and we didn’t know where you were,” he says finally, stowing his wand back in his robes.</p><p> </p><p>Potter laughs, and Draco’s stomach does a little swoop. “I was out looking for this,” he says, and holds up a little golden cup.</p><p> </p><p>Draco stares at it. “A cup? You ditched us and ran off into the woods to look for a <em> cup?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s a horcrux, Draco,” Potter says, like this word is supposed to mean something to him. “We’ve got to destroy it before we can kill Vo- You-Know-Who,” he says hastily as Draco lunges towards him to slap his hand over his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say his name!” Draco hisses. “Are you crazy? They’ll be on us in a minute flat!”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry!” Potter says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But the point is, there’s a little piece of his soul in here and we’ve got to destroy it.”</p><p> </p><p>Wait. “His <em> soul? </em> ” Draco all but screeches, “and you just <em> found </em> it? Lying there?”</p><p> </p><p>Potter frowns. “Not exactly, I- I’ll explain later. Are Ron and Hermione in there?” He starts towards the tent.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but I wouldn’t go in there right now if I were you.”</p><p> </p><p>Potter grimaces. “Ew,” he says with a look of mild annoyance. “Again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Again,” Draco confirms. “Looks like you’re stuck out here with me. Hey,” he says after a minute, giving Potter a once-over. “Why aren’t you soaking wet?” The storm is raging on with a stamina that’s quite impressive, really, but Potter is as dry as ever.</p><p> </p><p>“I know how to use <em> Impervius,” </em> Potter says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s not that hard.”</p><p> </p><p>“So why’d you run off, then,” Draco says, motioning for Potter to sit next to him. He does. “If it was storming so bad, why couldn’t you wait?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s, er, hard to explain,” Potter says, shifting uncomfortably on the cold earth. He’s holding the golden cup very carefully, like it’s a bomb about to go off, and if what he’s saying is true, if it holds a piece of Voldemort’s <em> soul, </em> then Draco doesn’t know why he hasn’t thrown it all the way across the woods. “I took a nap because I was on late watch last night,” he starts, which Draco knows, because Weasley’s snoring was so distracting that he was considering joining Potter outside, “and I woke up because I had this awful headache. And not the kind I usually have when it has to do with You-Know-Who,” he adds, “it was really weird, like I had this place I knew I was supposed to go but I didn’t remember where. So I walked outside and I could feel myself being pulled, like a magnet, but not in a bad way. And I kept walking and walking, and after a while it started to rain so I took cover for a few before casting the charm and continuing, and then I found myself in a clearing and <em> this </em> was right there, hidden underneath a bush.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco stares. “It was right there? In the middle of the woods?”</p><p> </p><p>Potter shrugs. “It’s the real deal,” he says, staring at the embossing around the base. “I could feel it when I picked it up, I can feel it now.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco leans over and touches it, and immediately he feels it, cold and hard and unforgiving pressure around his heart, just enough for his breath to catch and his hand to pull itself away. “Christ,” he says, breath coming in gasps. “It feels like that all the time?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s different to me,” Potter whispers. “I can feel <em> him, </em> can feel him alive in there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” says Draco, at a loss for words. They sit there in silence for a few minutes. The tent has gone silent, Granger and Weasley probably asleep. Or they’ve cast a <em> Muffliato </em> on it. “How are we supposed to destroy it?” he asks at last.</p><p> </p><p>“Gryffindor’s sword,” Potter replies casually, like that’s just something they have lying around.</p><p> </p><p>“You just have Gryffindor’s sword lying around?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” Potter says, like this is old information. “Christ, Draco, how much do you even know about what we’re doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not much,” he admits. “Really I just figured that you guys were on the run because the entirety of the Ministry and You-Know-Who’s army wanted to kill you all. Rather like myself,” he adds as an afterthought.</p><p> </p><p>Potter looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable behind his glasses. The cup glints coldly in the moonlight. “It’s almost ten,” he says finally, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “I’ll wake up Ron to take over for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Draco says, standing up but not knowing what else to say. ”Alright.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have a leaf in your hair,” Potter says with a smirk, and disappears inside the tent.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He dreams about the last day again.</p><p> </p><p>“Draco,” his father is saying, voice sounding distant even though he’s right behind him. His blood is rushing in his ears, heart pounding, hand shaking. He feels as though he might be sick.</p><p> </p><p>There’s high, cruel laughter from somewhere in front of him, but he can’t bring himself to look up. “Go on Draco,” the voice croons, “prove your loyalty to me.”</p><p> </p><p>His father’s hands push at his back, urging him forward, but his nails dig into his shoulder, like he’s trying to hold him back. “Go on,” his father repeats, despite the crack in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“My lord,” Draco hears himself say, voice barely a whisper. “I can’t-”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes you can,” says the voice, no longer laughing. “Don’t defy me, Draco.”</p><p> </p><p>“My lord,” he whispers again, sinking to his knees. His wand slips out of his grasp. It’s not his wand, either, he doesn’t know whose it is.</p><p> </p><p>“You know what happens to those who fail me,” the cold voice says, and he hears his mother gasp, “<em> Crucio!” </em></p><p> </p><p>His body erupts in pain, like every muscle he has is contracting at once, like all his blood vessels have burst into nothing. He hears a scream, but whether it’s him or his mother, he doesn’t know. Everything has gone a blinding white, and he doesn’t know if he feels tears running down his face or sweat, or blood.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Stop, stop, please!” </em> his mother is whimpering behind him, <em> “he’s just a boy, please, Draco, Draco-” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Draco,” says a voice, but it’s not high pitched and cruel - it’s the raspy whisper of someone who just woke up from sleep, tinged with worry and not apathy. There are hands on his shoulders, but they’re not his dad’s, not gripping tightly in apology, just resting on them, shaking him awake. “Draco,” the voice says again, and he jolts awake, sitting up so fast in his bunk bed that his head spins, the room still dark and his face wet but cold. </p><p> </p><p>“I heard you screaming,” says the voice, and a ball of light flickers to life above his head. Potter’s looking at him, concerned, dressed in pajama bottoms and a ridiculous jumper with a snitch embroidered on it. He doesn’t have his glasses on; his face looks more open and vulnerable, his eyes are wide and worried and so green. “You were shaking the bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco tries to open his mouth, tries to tell him to sod off, that he’s fine, that he isn’t crying, but all that comes out is a choked gasp for air, his heart still pounding, the sheets suddenly tangled up too tight around his torso. He tries again, letting out another hiccuping gasp.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Potter says, “you’re okay. Breathe,” he says, pulling away the sheets from where they’re knotted so tightly that he thinks he’ll never catch his breath again. He grabs Draco’s hand and places it over his own chest, taking in a deep breath. “Breathe,” he says again, face going blurry as more tears fill his eyes, and Draco finds his lungs fill with air, somehow obeying Potter’s steady command instead of his own. <em> Traitors, </em> he thinks numbly in some far-off corner of his brain. “With me now, that’s it.” One more deep breath, and then another. He can feel sensation coming back to his fingers, Potter’s heart beating along the line of his pulse, the warmth of his skin through the worn fabric of the jumper.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me about something,” Potter says, sounding a little less far away now. “What’s your favorite food?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco takes in another gasping breath. His eyes have stopped tearing up, and Potter’s face has stopped swimming in front of his own, instead just clouding over and going blurry. “M-my grandma’s c-” another hiccup bursts out of him, and he can feel himself turning red in embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on,” Potter encourages, his grip on Draco’s wrist tightening where he holds it against his chest. He takes in another deep breath and Draco copies him.</p><p> </p><p>“Ginger snaps,” Draco gets out around something that resembles a normal breath. He can taste them, exploding sweet and spicy on his tongue. It grounds him.</p><p> </p><p>“Your grandma’s?” Potter suggests softly. Draco nods. “What else?”</p><p> </p><p>What else? “Hogwarts,” he manages, and Potter nods. “Treacle tart.” </p><p> </p><p>Potter laughs gently. “Me too,” he says, “the best thing I’ve ever had.” He takes in another breath and Draco can feel his fingers clutching embarrassingly tight at the material of his jumper. He goes to pull it away, a halfhearted twitch of his palm, but Potter tightens his grasp. “It’s okay,” he says, voice gone soft. “Breathe. Keep going.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They don’t talk about it, in the morning. Everyone has bad dreams, Draco reasons, pulling on a jumper and a pair of worn jeans. Everyone leading this life has bad dreams, nightmares, they’ve all seen people get killed and they’ve nearly been killed themselves. It’s nothing to make a fuss over.</p><p> </p><p>He walks into the kitchen to find Potter putting the kettle on. He balks for a moment, not sure if he should say something, but then Potter turns around and gives him a smile, curly hair flopping into his eyes over his glasses, wearing another hideous jumper, this time in Gryffindor colors, red monogrammed with a large gold H. Draco’s stomach does another funny flip at the sight of Potter like this, all loose-limbed and pink-cheeked from sleep, the side of his face lined with pillow creases, and he frowns.</p><p> </p><p>Potter hands Draco a cup without another word, pouring the hot water into it and letting the steam wash up over his face. It’s a small comfort, his fingertips and toes still cold from the January air, and he smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Four sugars or five?” Potter teases lightly, and Draco opens his mouth to argue that he only takes two sugars, sometimes three if he’s really feeling like it, before three sugars are already floating their way over to his cup, along with a splash of cream, <em> real </em>cream, which must have been near impossible for him to track down in the shops without being spotted. The tea stirs itself, turning just the shade of brown he likes.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he mumbles, staring down at the cup. It’s good, strong, better than the tea he makes himself. <em> Of course, </em> he thinks, <em> of course Harry Potter makes amazing tea. </em>“Three sugars, hm?” he asks at an attempt to fill the silence. “You’re spoiling me, Potter.”</p><p> </p><p>Potter’s eyes roam his face over the rim of his cup, searching, searching. His expression stays carefully neutral. He shrugs. “You deserve to be spoiled sometimes,” he says, taking another sip, not looking Draco in the eyes.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“You’re scared,” Potter says simply, and it’s not a question. “You’re terrified.”</p><p> </p><p>This, for one, is true. Draco looks down at the expanse of forest, at the unassuming gold cup laid out in front of him, and feels pure fear tug at his heart. <em> Breathe, </em> he hears Potter’s voice in his head, and looks away. “Aren’t you?” he asks instead, looking at the silver sword Potter’s clutching like a lifeline. Weasley and Granger surround the cup on the other sides, looking equal parts apprehensive and determined.</p><p> </p><p>Potter gives him a sad little smile. “I’m used to it,” he says. He surveys the cup, sitting on the rock. It seems to tremble as they near it, like it knows what’s coming. “Here,” he says suddenly, handing Draco the sword. He takes it carefully, in awe, like he’s in shock.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s this for?”</p><p> </p><p>Potter looks him up and down, sweeping his eyes over the length of him, his torn-up jeans from running through the woods, the jumper he stole from Weasley, his mismatched socks. “You need to do it,” he says at last, stepping back. Granger and Weasley give Potter a strange look, but make no objection. “Go on.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why me,” Draco whispers, staring at the cup. He can hear it, almost, like a whisper, like a tug.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Potter says, watching, waiting. “It’s asking about you.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco doesn’t ask what it means. He looks at it some more, feels it tug at him, feels it laugh, feels it whisper.</p><p> </p><p>He brings the sword down in one smooth stroke.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They find him four miles west of Malfoy Manor, curled up on the ground. It’s mid December, the ground has frozen solid underneath him, and if he concentrates, he can make himself as still as the ground, encased in ice, preserved. He can lie here all winter and be safe until the spring, come out brand new.</p><p> </p><p>“Merlin,” Weasley says, dropping to the ground next to him. Draco flinches and curls up tighter. “Malfoy? Is that you?”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” comes Granger’s voice, but Draco can’t do much more than shake his head. “Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s everyone else?” asks Weasley, tone suddenly gone tense with suspicion. He stands up, looking around, like they’ve been led into a trap. “Are they here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so,” says Potter’s voice, kneeling right next to his head. “He looks terrible. I don’t think they know he’s here.” He places a hand on Draco’s neck, warm and alive, checking for a pulse, for breathing. “He’s okay,” he says after a moment. “He’s just banged up real bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Still,” Granger insists, walking away and coming back, walking away and coming back. She’s muttering something under her breath - spells, Draco recognizes, through the murky fog of thoughts. “There’s no one here,” she confirms after a few minutes, voice tense but already more relieved.</p><p> </p><p>“Then what’s Malfoy doing here all on his own?” murmurs Weasley. “They wouldn’t have ditched him, would they? Their own son?”</p><p> </p><p>“Malfoy?” asks Potter, and suddenly he’s being guided into a sitting position, leaning back on Weasley’s shoulder, looking up through a bleary layer of tears and sweat and grime into Potter’s alarmed face. “Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Yes, </em> he tries to say, or maybe <em> no, </em> or maybe <em> help, </em> but instead what comes out is a weak groan, and the crease between Potter’s eyebrows deepens. “He’s really hurt, Hermione,” he hears Potter say. “We should leave, go somewhere that’s not out in the open.”</p><p> </p><p>“And take him with us? It’s hard enough staying hidden with three people,” comes Granger’s voice, although still worried.</p><p> </p><p>“He saved my life,” Potter says, quietly like he’s hoping Draco won’t hear. “At least for a little while. We have to.”</p><p> </p><p>No one speaks for a moment. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, tries to reach his arms up and rub the dirt out, but his limbs won’t move. “Alright,” she says at last. “Ron?”</p><p> </p><p>“If we have to,” Weasley agrees, and then there’s a terrible feeling, like he’s being compressed into two dimensions, he’s Apparating, he realizes, before the pressure suddenly releases and the churning in his stomach reaches a crescendo and he turns to the side and promptly empties the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, god,” says Weasley, halfway between disgust and pity, “one minute and he’s already hurled.”</p><p> </p><p>“He looks like he’s been tortured,” notes Potter, still speaking in a hushed voice. He comes up next to Draco, where he’s crouched ungracefully next to the bush. “Draco?” he asks softly. “Are you feeling better now?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” croaks Draco, esophagus burning something terrible and eyes tearing up again. He’s sure he looks a right mess. Potter’s face, however, breaks out in relief at his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“I figured,” he says. “Can you walk?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco wiggles his toes, and then rolls his ankles, his calves. “Maybe,” he says truthfully. He doesn’t know how long he was lying there. His head is pounding something terrible.</p><p> </p><p>Potter surveys him for a moment. “Ron,” he says. “Can you go put the kettle on?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Tell me about the storms,” Potter says, hands coming up to clutch gently at Draco’s biceps, tethering him. He doesn’t let go, and Draco’s glad, or he’ll float away like a lifeboat at sea. “What do you like about them?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco’s face is cold and wet, his sheets gone damp with sweat. He dreamt about the cup, today, the voice speaking to him when no one else could hear. The pain came later. The pain always comes later, just when everything goes quiet and he thinks it’s morning and he can wake up safe. “Draco,” says Potter again, hands sliding down to his wrists. The room is dark, the rain outside soft and soothing, already lulling his heartbeat into something marginally steadier. “Tell me about the storms.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re loud,” he manages to get out, struggling to keep his breathing even. This is stupid, he knows, for a Malfoy to be so uncomposed, unheard of, but Potter doesn’t seem to care. “They’re all I can hear.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” Potter says encouragingly. “Breathe.” He does. “What else?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco breathes, again and again. “C-Cocoa. The- the fireplace. The floods.”</p><p> </p><p>Potter frowns. “The floods?” His voice is gentle, soothing, like the rain. </p><p> </p><p>The entire garden would flood, he wants to say, a year’s worth of painstaking care, weeds and fertilizer and water and sun, washed away in the blink of an eye, raking dirt along the pathway and down to the front gates. Narcissa’s pride and joy, the garden, and none of them would bat an eye. Sometimes, he thinks, they all felt the same way, relieved to be clean, the release like an exhale, like the entire house is holding its breath. “It feels clean,” he stammers, thinking of the way the water would carry down the road. “It’s w-washing everything away.”</p><p> </p><p>The room is dark but the moonlight catches in Potter’s eyes, wide and naked without his glasses, sad. “Breathe,” he reminds him, when his lungs catch on an inhale and his heart starts to hammer. He holds Draco’s wrists tight, not enough to hurt, but the pressure on his pulse point keeps him steady. He can feel his heartbeat like it’s a tangible thing, and for a fleeting second, he’s embarrassed at how easily it abandons him, the erratic rush of it. “Copy me,” Potter says, for what must be the thousandth time, and there go his traitorous lungs again. “Good. Keep going.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco thinks. “My mother,” he says, and the tears come spilling back in one heady rush. “H-her music.”</p><p> </p><p>Potter hums thoughtfully, smiling. “Ron’s mum always listened to terrible music,” he muses. “I bet your mum’s was better.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco shakes his head, hiccuping out a laugh. “Celestina Warbeck,” he gets out, and Potter laughs, a real, sharp laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess not,” he says, still smiling enough to make his eyes get all crinkly. “All mums are the same, I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco smiles. He breathes.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Potter makes him tea again. It’s a tradition, almost, although they’ve had to compromise on the fact that Draco can only add two cubes of sugar a day. When he wakes up the next morning, his cup of tea is sitting on the table, kept fresh with a warming charm, and stirred to perfection. Potter’s wearing another disgusting jumper, green with a broomstick splayed across the front. With a jolt, Draco notices that Potter looks quite good in green. <em> Harry, </em> he amends, figuring that if he can listen to Draco cry about his mother at arse-o-clock in the morning, then he can call Potter by his first name.</p><p> </p><p>He tries it out. “Harry,” he says aloud, the letters sitting awkwardly on his tongue, before fitting themselves so nicely in his mouth that it surprises him. He likes that, he decides.</p><p> </p><p>Harry turns around to look at him, a shocked expression on his face. “What did you call me?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco feels himself going red, and he takes a sip of tea to hide his flustered face. “Harry,” he says again with a shrug. “You call me by my first name.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” says Potter - <em> Harry - </em> eyes warm and knowing. He smiles, ever so slightly, like he didn’t even realize he’d been doing it all this while. “I guess I do.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco takes another sip of tea. “About time,” he murmurs, over a mouthful of sweet liquid. “We’re not kids anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry fixes him with a look, like he’s reading Draco even though the thick lenses of his glasses and two layers of clothing, like he can see deep down inside his rib cage where his heart is tattooing a beat into bone. “No,” he agrees at last, “no we’re not.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The morning after they find him, Draco wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, rickety and low on the ground, but the sheets are worn soft and comfortable. The walls are so transparent that morning light is leaking through them - a tent, he realizes, he’s in a tent - and it smells like pine and fresh air. Weasley’s standing in the corner, busying himself in what looks to be a kitchen of sorts, or maybe a living room. It’s comfortable in here, spacious but cramped in the cozy sort of way that the Manor never was.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re awake,” says Weasley, not turning around, and Draco wonders, briefly, how he knows, because he hasn’t made any sort of noise or indication to it. “How’s your head?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” says Draco dumbly, lifting up a heavily bandaged hand to the side of his skull, where he feels another bandage, running lengthwise from below his cheekbone to his temple. “I dunno? What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Weasley walks over with a cup of tea. “Hermione gave you a sleeping potion,” he says, putting a couple drops of something from a stopper into the tea. “Hopefully you feel a little better now.” He hands Draco the cup, and he looks at it suspiciously, wondering if they’re trying to poison him. Weasley rolls his eyes. “It’s for the pain,” he says, holding up a tiny glass bottle of Murtlap.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not in pain,” Draco says, but he takes a sip of the tea anyway. It’s not as strong as he usually takes it, but it’s warm and on the right end of too sweet, and he realizes that his entire body has been shivering slightly from the cold.</p><p> </p><p>“You will be once the sleeping potion wears off,” Weasley replies, draining his own cup in a few gulps.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are Potter and Granger?” Draco asks, trying to be nonchalant, but he can’t keep the slight note of panic out of his voice. Weasley raises an eyebrow. “I mean,” he adds, “I remember them being here too.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’ve gone shopping,” he says at last. “We’ve got to get food somehow, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“You-you guys are <em> living </em> out here?” Draco says, somewhat incredulously. “Is there where you all ran off to?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but if you’re thinking about running back to your friends and telling them about us-”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re not my friends,” Draco says slowly, taking another sip of tea. “They bloody tortured me, if you don’t remember.”</p><p> </p><p>“We wondered about that,” says Weasley truthfully, sinking into a chair across from him, surveying the tangled sheets and Draco’s rumpled hair. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>There are other things they don’t talk about, of course. Draco’s certain that Harry would have brought up sixth year by now, that he was going to pounce on the opportunity and interrogate him within an inch of his life, but it doesn’t come up. At first, Draco spent every waking moment around him tensed up, ready to have to defend himself, to apologize, maybe, just waiting for Harry to turn his own wand on him and admit that it was a mistake ever helping him before cursing him into oblivion.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing happens. In all honesty, Granger and Weasley are more apprehensive of his presence than Harry is, but they take his word at face value and converse with him with terse politeness. He hates it enough to almost rather they’d ignore him completely. Harry, however, has none of these reservations. He readily pushes food into Draco’s hands, sends him out on shifts to keep watch with no hesitation, and the first time Draco wakes up from a nightmare, gasping for breath and clutching at the frame of the bunk bed, Harry’s there, telling him to breathe without so much as a raised eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>There are things they don’t talk about, but they come close, sometimes. The need to prove himself to Harry Potter isn’t a new feeling. Draco can feel the compulsion come out of hibernation, slowly, until it’s clawing at his throat and chest, urging him to say whatever he needs to say to make Harry pleased with him, proud, even.</p><p> </p><p>“I have dreams, too,” Harry admits one evening when they’re about to switch shifts for night watch. Draco’s limbs have gone stiff with the cold, after being slouched in one position for so long, the minutes ticking by before he even noticed. Harry looks down at him with a steady expression on his face.</p><p> </p><p>Draco scoffs and looks away. “You don’t wake up screaming,” he says. It’s the first time either of them bring it up, much less in the open, not tucked away in the back room of the tent on a rickety bunk bed. “You don’t throw up like I do.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no one way to be traumatized,” Harry says pointedly, slipping to the ground beside him, and Draco feels rather stupid all of a sudden.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” he says softly. He can leave and go inside now, but he doesn’t. <em> Blame it on the limbs, </em> he thinks, <em> blame it on muscle soreness, why I’m not getting up. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“I saw my parents die,” Harry says suddenly. “The night in Godric’s Hollow. When my wand broke and the snake attacked, Hermione brought me back and I had a dream about it, only it wasn’t a dream, it was <em> real.” </em>He wrings his hands, suddenly looking very, very small. Draco swallows, overcome with the unwanted urge to give him a hug, press his lips to his temples, run a hand through his hair, except that’s the thing, isn’t it, that it isn’t unwanted, not at all.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says instead, dumbly.</p><p> </p><p>Harry smiles, eyes suddenly gone a little watery. “It’s true, what they’ve been saying,” he goes on. “All those years and people kept telling me that my mom died to save me, and I thought they were just saying things, speculating, but it’s true. I never…” he trails off, clears his throat, voice closed off and choked. “My dad didn’t even have a wand in his hand. He didn’t stand a chance.”</p><p> </p><p>Draco doesn’t say anything. What is he supposed to say? “I didn’t know that,” he says at last, slowly, hesitating. “I never really listened to the gossip.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry laughs, albeit a little sadly. “I know,” he says. “I don’t think you would have made fun of me for not having parents if you really knew.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Draco admits. “I was a real piece of work when I was younger.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry looks at him. “You were just a kid,” he says frowning gently, “with a borderline racist, blood purist snob for a dad.”</p><p> </p><p>This, he can’t argue. “Don’t talk about my father like that,” he says anyway, but it falls flat before the third word. He cracks a smile, despite himself. “Really though,” he says, “I’m sorry, about it all.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry frowns. “You don’t have to apologize. You saved my life.””</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and then I got tortured to the brink of death for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what happened,” Harry says softly, like an apology. “I-I’m sorry, I never meant for you to-”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Draco interrupts him. He doesn’t get up and go inside, just yet, but neither of them say anything else until he does.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“I almost killed someone,” Draco admits to the still, early morning air. It’s quiet, a rushed confession, like all he had to do was open his mouth for the words to come tumbling out.</p><p> </p><p>Harry doesn’t even blink. “Who?” he asks, eyes darting between Draco’s own.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs, like it’s less important than it really is. “It was in the woods. We were running. At the edge of a ravine, I hit them with a stunning spell and they fell over backwards. I didn’t see their face.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry comes closer. “How do you know?” he asks, and it’s a good point. “Maybe you just knocked them over.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just knew,” says Draco simply, “I could feel it,” like that explains anything.</p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, Harry nods. “Me too,” he says quietly. This takes Draco by surprise, that the Golden Boy would lay a finger on anyone, really hurt them. Harry only disarms, he notices, he stuns and immobilizes and disarms but he’s rare to do anything other than that. Even himself, in the throes of a struggle at the Manor, he disarmed Draco, Bellatrix, his mother.</p><p> </p><p>“Who?” asks Draco, both wanting to know the answer and not. Harry meets his gaze, and then it slips down over his chest, eyes searching through the fabric for the scars he knows are there, now a silver-pink-white and nearly forgotten. He looks away.</p><p> </p><p>Draco wants to laugh. “Still?” he asks incredulously. “Harry, you can’t still-”</p><p> </p><p>“I can, and I will,” he snaps, so upset that Draco immediately feels bad. “I nearly killed you,” he whispers, sounding close to tears.</p><p> </p><p><em> That was a long time ago, </em> Draco wants to say, or maybe <em> I was trying to use an Unforgivable on you</em>, or maybe <em> I deserved it, </em> but none of those words come out. Instead, he reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand, pressing it to the pulse of his wrist like Harry always does for him. “Hey,” he says, squeezing. “I’m alright, see?” <em> I’m alright, </em> he wants to say, <em> I’m warm and alive and I’m okay and a little in love with you. </em> He doesn’t say any of it because he’s a bloody coward, he’s always been a coward. Instead, he holds on tight, even when Harry lets out a sniff and tries to pull his hand away. “I’m alright,” he repeats, “and you are too.”</p><p> </p><p>The coward in him wants to sit there for hours, waiting until their pulses fall into step together, pulsing on the same pathetic, contracting beat. The coward in him wants to lean in and slot their lips together, and maybe it was a mistake to keep Harry’s hand pressed up against his wrist, because he feels the line of his pulse flutter, for one fleeting moment, the steady in-out of their breathing thrown off in a stutter. Harry yanks his hand back, face blooming red. “I-” he starts, seeming, for the first time in his entire life, to be at a loss for words.</p><p> </p><p>“You,” Draco agrees, watching him scramble backwards, through the tent flap, and out of sight.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“It’s dead,” Harry says, looking down at the cup, mangled and charred, twisted into something unrecognizable and ugly to the core. Helga Hufflepuff, Draco thinks, would be horrified to see her prized cup like this. Helga Hufflepuff, Draco thinks, would be even more horrified to know of the dark magic it hosted.</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know?” asks Draco, even looking at the dull gold, remembering the way it had folded in upon itself when the blade touched it, the way it had screamed, the way its voice had slithered into the nooks and crannies of his brain like it was trying to find a refuge. “How do you know it’s not just...waiting?”</p><p> </p><p>This, he knows, is a stupid question. Harry had collapsed when he destroyed it, falling to the ground with a scream so chilling that his heart had dropped neatly out of his body, stomach rolling, and he had been halfway to his side before Weasley managed to restrain him. “Leave him be,” Weasley had said, face contorted into something akin to what Draco was feeling in his chest. “Give him a moment.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry doesn’t call him out on his ridiculous question though. Instead, he picks up the cup gently by what used to be an intricately carved handle, and presses it softly to Draco’s palm. He flinches away, expecting the pressure, the voices, the pain, but nothing comes. It’s cold, dead, lifeless, pathetic. “Do you feel anything?”</p><p> </p><p>Does he feel anything? He feels the soft brush of Harry’s fingertips over his palm, his steady gaze on Draco’s face, a shiver running through him that has nothing to do with the cup. “No,” he lies. He’s a liar, he’s a coward. He’s always been these things and he always will be.</p><p> </p><p>Harry keeps his gaze locked on him. “Nothing?” he asks, taking a step closer.</p><p> </p><p>Draco’s heart pounds just a little faster, skipping a beat, like it’s stuttering over its own words. “No,” he says again, unable to draw his eyes away from the curve of Harry’s cupid’s bow, the shadow of stubble under his jaw. <em> We’re not kids anymore, </em> he thinks, with a sudden pang of homesickness for a home he’s never had. “I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Liar,” Harry whispers, mouth hardly a few inches away from his own. He presses his hand over Draco’s, pushing the cup to the floor, where it hits the ground with a muffled <em> clang </em> and rolls away, under the bed, ignored. “You can’t lie to me Draco. I can read you like a book.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that so,” Draco whispers back, and then they’re kissing, Harry’s hand coming up against his jaw and his throat, the other in his hair, the rim of his glasses getting pushed up uncomfortably against Draco’s cheek, but he couldn’t care less. The heady rush of it is a relief, his heart slowing and speeding up on the offbeat like it’s saying <em> finally, </em> his head dizzy but not from the pain, not from the dreams, not from the memories, just full of Harry. He’s so relieved he wants to laugh, his knees are halfway to giving out from a kiss that’s lasted all of five seconds long.</p><p> </p><p>“No doubt about it,” Harry murmurs against his lips, before pulling him back again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Tell me about home,” Harry breathes out in a rush, except this time, Draco isn’t shaking and crying and gasping for breath on the edge of a burst of nausea. “What is it like there?” he asks, head on Draco’s chest and fingers tracing idly down the line of his ribs, tracing over the scars when he thinks Draco won’t notice.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a house,” he admits, “but it’s not really a home. It’s too cold, too big, too empty.” Too many tainted moments, he wants to say, the Manor is an old and famous wizarding building, picking up on the feelings of the wizards who inhabit it. He wants to tell Harry about the killing, the destruction, the bad magic that trails slowly through the building. “It doesn’t feel happy,” he says at last, staring resolutely up at the ceiling of the tent.</p><p> </p><p>“You like rain and floods,” Harry remembers. “Is that why?”</p><p> </p><p>Draco goes quiet, listening to the soft thrum of rain hitting the ground outside. It’s spring, the wildflowers coming into bloom cautiously, the winter frost giving way to dew. “That’s one reason,” he admits, pulling Harry closer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! please let me know if you liked it!! apparently i'm incapable of writing anything less than 7k words EVEN THOUGH this was supposed to be 4k max.... oops.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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